The Cloak Of The Queen
by solitariusvirtus
Summary: A prophecy unravels. A new Queen sits the throne of Westeros alongside the King she does not want and in her court comes another, younger and fairer, says the one with power of judgement. And in this struggle for power tales are spun. AU! Lyanna lives a prophecy she wanted no part of and finds that sometimes one needs to choke all that is good in themselves for mere survival.
1. Chapter 1

It started, like most good stories do, with a prophecy.

On a dark night when even the stars refused to shire their meager light to bless the mortals' sight, three young girls left the safety of the mighty lion's keep to make their way through dust and mud towards the tent of a famed Frog who was said by all to be able to tell one's fortune. Did she read it in the stars? Or taste it in the blood of the innocents she fed off of? No one knew. But her words always came to pass; and that was a truth accepted by all. No one challenged her predictions much like no one challenged the fact that the sun rose from the east.

So the noble ladies devised a plan between the three of them to make off with gold coins and other trinkets to present to the maegi woman in whose predictions they placed their faith. The first of them was the proud daughter of the mighty lion himself. Cersei was her name as she was as fair as the sun. No other in the land could be compared to her, for even the flowers bowed to their mistress with gold in her hair. The second was knows as Melara, the oldest of the three maidens, and the friend of the little lioness. The last of them was plain Jeyne with no looks to boast of and much fright in her heart. They were, the three of them, in want of knowledge as girl are known to be. Though the conviction ran strong in the first two, the third member of the clandestine party sought reason to return to the warmth of the hearth, away from the dangers of the dark night.

"Come now, Jeyne," Melara cajoled sweetly. "Don't you want to know who you shall wed?"

"To be frank, my lady, I do not." Fat Jeyne stopped in the middle of the road, her corpulent body coming to a standstill. "I say we return. Your father would be angry if he knew where we are, Cersei."

Cersei hissed trough her teeth in annoyance, her fair face set in a fierce scowl. "We are not returning," she told her companions in a decisive manner. "I refuse to leave without my fortune and that old hag had better give us the news we seek after all the trouble we went through to reach her."

The tent they reached in full power of the night with naught but a torch to guide them, and even that light was frail in the sea of darkness. The inconsiderate old woman had gone to sleep without a thought for the three guests at her tent flap. But Cersei would not be dissuaded. She barged into the witch's lair, followed by her trusted companions and kicked the woman where she lay to bring her around to the world of the living.

"Awake!" she ordered. "Awake and give us our fortunes."

But the woman slept on stubbornly. Angered the young lioness threw one of the jars she found on the ground. The glass breaking caused such a commotion and an acrid smell filled the tent; the old maegi had to but wake and put a stop to wanton destruction. And so she did.

"Get out! Get out," came the weakened moan of the abused seer. "If you do not wish to find dark news for your morrows, get out of my tent."

Jeyne, the rotund and frightened, ran out as soon as the woman opened her eyes to stare at the intruders with cursed golden orbs. She swung herself out the tent so fast that neither Cersei nor Melara could catch and detain her.

Only two were left out of three and Cersei would not give up. "My fortune, or I shall have my father kick you out of Lannisport," she threatened. "Now, if you please."

The witch scrutinised both with clever eyes. "I say you do not wish to know. Go, your morrows are better left unknown."

"Silence!" Melara, tall and lank, cut her off, putting herself in the woman's way. "Maggy the Frog, you can either tell us what we wish to know or you can spend the rest of your days in a dungeon with only rats for company."

A glare full of fury was the girl's reward. But Maggy had no wish to fight them it would seem, for she pulled a stool and spat out a glob of green phlegm. "Fortune, aye? I'll ask the stars, but I charge a fee for my service." Her warning went unheeded.

"We have coin and jewels," Cersei told her, holding out a few coins as proof as Melara held up a small purse that promised more.

"The gold matters not, neither the jewels. 'Tis something else I need," Maggy replied with a huff. The girls looked disheartened. They knew not what to make of the witch's words. But Maggy did not let them wallow. "A drop of blood from each of you. Which one of you goes first?"

It was Cersei that would go first. She held out her hand and watched in disgust as the maegi sliced the tip of her finger and took the appendage in her mouth. The young girl almost pulled her hand back then, but fort the sake of her undisclosed future she endured. When the hag was done she let go of the finger.

"Ask me your questions, child," she said in a sad, tired voice which Cersei found she did not like.

Her father had long ago promised her that she would wed the gallant Prince of the Seven Kingdoms. Cersei just wanted to know when that moment would come. So it was that she asked of the witch. "Must I wait long before I wed the prince?"

"Never shall you wed him. It is the king you wed." Such news gladdened Cersei's heart. It meant the Prince would, before long, take his father's throne.

"I am to be queen, then?" she questioned, hungry for all the details.

Yet Maggy had no kind words to spare her. "Aye, so you shall. But the day will come when another takes your place, younger and more beautiful. She will take away from you everything which you hold dear," the maegi cautioned. The words once spoken could not be taken back.

That Cersei did not believe. Instead she wanted to know about the children she would give her husband. "How many sons and daughter will I give to the king?"

"Three for you and five for him shall be." Maggy's gazed deep into Cersei's soul. "They will be crowned with golden crowns and covered in golden shrouds. And then, when you have no more tears left, the valonqar shall take your own life, choking you with both hands."

Unhappy with that prediction even more than before Cersei was ready to give the woman a well-deserved tongue lashing, but Melara interrupted her. It was apparently her turn to question the reputed seer. She had but one pressing query, "When will I become Jaime's wife?"

To that the old woman laughed. "Jaime shall never have you, nor any other man. It is to the worms that you will sacrifice your maidenhead and death shall take you away. This is your last night on this earth? Can you feel death? She is close."

Well and truly angered, Cersei took another jar of vile stuff and threw it at the woman's face. Melara needed no words to know it was time to leave. She took Cersei's hand and together they fled the witch's curses that followed them into the night. They ran and ran until they reached the old well that was said to have gone dry as bone three generations ago. They stopped by the well and burst into peals of laughter.

"She is not sane," Melara tried to console them both between fits of hysterical laughter. "If we speak not a word of this, it shall all fade like a night terror." Her promise was weak and in the suffocating night, Cersei's soul was overtaken by something dark and cruel. "I shall wed Jaime, no matter what the hag says."

Melara approached the well and looked down into it. She looked a ghost standing at the edge of her watery grave. Cersei snuck behind her, with she knew not what thought. The only certainty in her mind was that Melara would not have her dear Jaime. Jaime was Cersei's, her twin, her other half. She would not share him; not even with Melara. Even in the maegi's tent the question had irked her. Melara had no right to Jaime. Cersei took a deep breath and reached the logical conclusion that the maegi had not been wrong in her predictions. Melara would not see another dawn.

Shoving with all her power, Cersei managed to push Melara so the other girl fell over the edge of the well. A shriek of terror was torn from her lips as she fell into the unforgiving darkness. A thud, accompanied by the sickening crack of bones snapping apart rose from the bowels of the pit. Cersei imagined the broken body lying on the cold, wet ground. Melara would give the worms her maidenhead.

Pity did not stir Cersei at her friend's fate. She would soon be queen and that was all that mattered.

Three had gone and only one returned, her feet brushing the ground softly, her regal step a mark of her innate nobility. Cersei Lannister, soon to be Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, returned to the safety of her father's home undetected.

No one was waiting for her. The servants were all abed and her brother slept as well. Jeyne had fled to only the Seven knew where and Melara laid a dead maid, Cersei thought with satisfaction. She could not wait to share her news with Jaime. He would come with her and be a Kingsguard, forever by her side. And the Others take the old woman's predictions. Cersei made her own destiny. The stars themselves would bow to her.

She made her way into the room of her golden twin and slipped under the covers with him, waking the boy with a soft kiss to his cheek. Jaime smiled upon the sight of his sister, but before she could open her mouth to tell him of her adventure, he shushed her with a small gesture and told her to sleep, stating that the morning was hours away.

Somehow, despite her fervent wishes to stay awake, Cersei fell into a troubled sleep. Words haunted her dreams and from a well in the woods climbed out a bloodied corpse with dead, glassy eyes and vengeance on her tongue. And that cadaver turned into her monstrous younger brother, the one father had locked far, far away in the nursery. He was the same brother that had murdered their mother, crawling out of her. He would kill her as well if she allowed him near her, Cersei just knew it. He was the valonqar. And the night terror went on and on until someone shook her shoulder and woke her from her heavy slumber.

The first face she saw was her dear Jaime's. He looked pale and worried. "You were crying out for help," he explained as he helped her up.

Cersei hurriedly threw her arms around him. She used his shoulders to support her head and rested her weight against him. "And you came to my aid. 'Twas just a dream." She did not tell him anything about the maegi in the end or about the girl at the bottom of the well. People would search for Melara. She would claim to have no knowledge of the other's leaving. "I needs must return to my own room."

Jaime allowed her to leave, though mournfully. He was loath to part from her as she was. But some things had to be endured and she would bear it stoically. She kissed him on the lips and hurried down the hall before the Septa could detect her and scold her for sharing her brother's chamber again.

* * *

In the Red Keep where the King's court slept, a lone woman walked alone the battlements, her gait slightly swayed, her dress in tatters, her hair a mess of tangled curls. None was present to see her suffering and none was there to help her. Not even the guards that were supposed to dog her every step.

She was the Queen. She was the sister-wife of a King for whom she held no love. She was the mother of princes who could not aid her. She was a poor, tortured soul that ghosts clung to. She was tried of life and tried of the world. She was Rhaella Targaryen.

Once upon a time she had been a young woman with a head full of dreams and pretty songs. Once upon a time she had loved and been loved. Nothing remained of that girl. She had grown into a dutiful woman, a wife and a mother, fetters that tore at her flesh and bloodied her skin. Rhaella Targaryen had once been a happy princess. No longer. Queen Rhaella was looking for an escape, she was searching for the girl she used to be, but the clouds held no answer, the sun spoke not a word and the ground looked so inviting.

She had done her duty, the Queen told herself. She had given through her sweat and blood two princes for the throne. She had done what was tasked to her. And she wanted her reward. She wanted peace. The road looked small from where she stood. All it would take was one step. One small step and she would be free,

Fearfully, the woman looked over her shoulder, expecting her torturer to appear out of the shadow and drag her back inside. But he was not there. Rhaella breathed out in relief and looked down again. One small step, the phrase reverberated through her mind incessantly. She needn't endure cruel hands any longer. She needn't see gleaming eyes and wicked smile.

But the thoughts of her children found her. Her oldest son was almost grown. He would survive the world without her, but her younger child, she knew not what to do with him. Her husband was a cruel man and she wished she could take Viserys with her, but she would not give him to the Stranger's arms with her own two hands. Perhaps the Gods would be merciful. Aye, she could well believe they would, when it came to a child, innocent and free of sin.

It was time for her to go. She was no longer needed. Rhaegar would care for his brother, for her eldest was a kind boy. He would protect the child from his father's cruelty and if not Rhaella would wrap him in her arms when the Stanger brought him to her and then she would haunt the oldest to his death and beyond. "Gods give me strength," she prayed the Seven.

Her hands she balled into fists, nails biting the inside, soft skin cracking and bleeding. She asked for mercy and a painless end. "Let them, not mourn me knowing I am in a batter place. I shall watch over them and give them strength." For what power she lacked in the earthly prison of her body, she would have tenfold once her soul was free. "I pray you, Gods, care for my children and give them happiness and joy." And then she did as her soul cried for her to do and walked over the edge.

There was no pain. She floated for some time then fell unfeeling to the ground. The impact was short, the sound was loud. Steely tasting blood filled her mouth and darkness surrounded her. Rhaella gave herself over freely, embracing the stranger with both arms. She had waited and waited for him to come and then she had tired of waiting. First it had been a hope that he would take her husband and then she prayed that he took her. Well, if he hesitated to do so, she would walk to him herself.

The broken body they found on the ground could hardly be recognised as the once elegant sister-wife of the King. But her clothing was that of a regal being, her hair, though bloodied, carried the silver-gold of her house as testament of her identity. And most importantly, she wore around her neck a golden string that belonged to the Queen.

Aye, the Queen was dead and the King would have to be told.

The servants hurried to do so, but not before one of the kinder ones covered her with a rotten, moth-eaten cloak to hide the sight of her mangled body.

Predictably her royal husband greeted the news with shock, but not regret. "She was a good wife," he said finally. He had not been a good husband though. Not that such a thought ever made its way to his head, The King was busy seeing shadows where every ray of light ended; he was busy fighting those who would betray him. "A funeral," he said then, "a funeral the likes of which had never been before. She was my Queen." Though he hadn't loved her, not at all. Yet she bore him sons and served as him in the best way a woman could.

It did not take long for the whole court to learn of the Queen's untimely demise. The first to hear was the oldest of her children, a young man who went by the name of Rhaegar. He had long known his mother had a weakened mind, but all the same her gesture shocked him. He would not speak ill of her though. And he would not have other doing so either. The safest way was to tell all and everyone that the Queen had fallen while taking in the fresh morning air. And so he did.

After him it was the turn of the young Prince to find out about his mother's death. Prince Viserys was inconsolable. He cried and raged and demanded his mother, all to no avail. The servants would not take him to her, his brother refused to do so either and his father ordered him locked in his rooms. All that he knew was that his sole fountain of love was gone and he was alone. It was too strong a burden for so tender shoulders to carry. Yet the Gods never were a fair lot, he supposed. So he raged on.

As was the custom of all Targaryens, Queen Rhaella would be burned; her ashes lied to rest in Baelor's Sept. She would rise to the sky as the smoke left her charred corpse. Aerys ordered the best wood to be gathered for the funeral. He would have nothing but the very best for the people needed to see the splendour bestowed even upon the dead. So long as the people knew the King's power, the Queen would be properly mourned.

But the incineration was not to be commenced without the High Septon to watch over the process. Silent sisters invaded the palace to prepare the Queen's body for her final journey and people of all kinds gathered at the gates of the keep to cry bitter tears at the death of such loved and cherished a woman as their rightful Queen Rhaella. The sounds of their sobs could be heard all the way to Maegors Holdfast, and this show of suffering pleased the King beyond measure.

"Who knew that even in death she would serve me well?" he murmured to himself, long, curved nails piercing the thin silk of a handkerchief his wife had embroidered herself. It was to have been a gift for a lowly knight. She would have hated to know that her husband carried it around, so Aerys Targaryen, the Second of his Name, had hidden it from her sight, but always on his person. Such was his warped nature, that not even his closest advisors understood him. Nor did they express a wish to do so.

It was best to keep away from Mad King Aerys, they whispered in dark corners, eyes looking cautiously about for little spiders. Somehow the Red Keep crawled with those creatures, pesky, scavenging fiends to the minds of many. But the Spider, master of hidden matters, had his attention upon another of the King's requests and listened only very rarely to the ill opinions of unruly subjects.

The King had made up his mind the very day of his wife's death that the realm would been another queen. "Find me a queen after my own heart's desire," he told the Spider they called Varys. "Find me her that I shall love with all my heart."

And the order was to be carried out swiftly. So Varys gathered his minions from all about and together they weaved a web to snare a queen fit for their King.


	2. Chapter 2

Seldom did the dead hold much power over the living in a fashion that was equally binding and dangerous. And if one did have the misfortune of finding such remnants clinging to their life causing strife, they would do best to disentangle themselves from the situation.

"What do you mean she has been asking the ruling Princess of Dorne about her daughter?" Rhaegar scowled at the news Jon Connington brought him. To be fair he had known his mother exchanged occasional letters with friends of her girlhood, but had no idea whatsoever that she had been making enquiries on his behalf.

While the gesture was duly appreciated, Rhaegar had no intention of allowing his deceased mother to find him a bride. When he would wed, and he did plan to, it would be to a maid of his own choosing. And the great houses of Westeros were thankfully not bereft of such girls.

"There is no reason to fret," the other man replied. He always did try his best to offer solutions pleasing to the Prince. "The ruling Princess of Dorne has promised at least one of her children to the Lannisters. Apparently, it has been a long understanding between the matriarchs of House Martell and House Lannister that a marriage would take place between them."

Soothed, Rhaegar sat back down, a thought taking root in his mind. "It would still pay to be cautious. Is there any viable reason for which I may be excused from court?" There had been few promises which his parents had made to him, but the perfect one unveiled for him at that exact moment.

As a child he had expressed an interest in Essos. Thus his father had said that once he came of age, he would be allowed to travel to Essos. The old continent was not only the home of his forefathers, but it held a culture so very different from the one he grew up in and wonders beyond compare. Perhaps, if he used his influence correctly, his father would agree to send him off a bit earlier. The King himself did not seem in much a hurry to wed his children. His mother had hinted at his matrimonial state for quite some time, yet his father had been perfectly pleased to ignore every last word on that subject. He seemed to have plans of his own and no time to spare on his sons. Rhaegar was not at all bothered.

Connington refrained from speaking for once and the Prince was left to contemplate the finer points of his plan. Perhaps he would not even need to lift a finger to avert the supposed danger lurking above him. It might be that the Lannisters would be happy with the Dornish Princess. He would only need to avoid his mother's other ladies and their precious daughters. One could only pray the gods the father would do as he had always done and give in to his son's demands. Essos was the safest place he could think of.

But before he could start packing his trunks, he would need his father's approval, preferably expressed in an official manner. Deciding that the matter would keep, Rhaegar prepared for the visit he was required to make to his little brother every day. Viserys seemed to have attached himself quite strongly to his older brother in the absence of their mother. Rhaegar did not fault the boy. Rhaella had been the sun and stars for him, much like she had been for Rhaegar himself before he'd grown into a young man. He understood the need for love and the admiration each boy usually reserved for his mother until he understood that there were other women on which to focus their attention.

His brother was, as he was wont to be, throwing a fit of hysterics behind a set of tightly shut doors for some reason which Rhaegar would find infallibly childish. So he refrained from asking the clearly abused Septa why she had a piece of wet cloth pressed to one fat reddened cheek. Instead he made his way around her and bent down to the approximate maximum height of his brother. The only warning he gave was a series of soft knocks.

"Viserys," he called to the boy on the other side of the locked doors, imagining all the hot air deflate from the child's pouty visage. "Viserys, open the door."

"Go away!" was the answer he received. Clearly, his brother was looking for a war of wills. Rhaegar would not disappoint him. It was better to have him mildly annoyed than listless and not speaking one word.

"I won't. I'll stay here until you open the door." The warning flew right past his brother for Viserys simply kicked the door. "I have all day." Even if he child did refuse to open the door at first, surely he would grow hungry and then he would not have any other recourse but to leave the space of confinement he imposed upon himself. And Rhaegar really did have all day. There were no pressing matters that needed his attention, nor was he requested to aid his father with documents or petitions.

"I will never come out!" Viserys declared hotly after a short time of silence. To emphasise his point he once again hit the door.

Rhaegar winced when he heard the boy suck in a breath, but he refrained from offering anything other than a mock-surprised look to the Septa who stood at attention behind him, no doubt considering her precarious position. It was, after all, not the first time he found her in the same particular situation, locked out of her ward's chamber. Of course, Rhaegar held little sway over the staff and as his father would not bestir himself, the woman was quite safe. Even if he did want to send her packing, his words was of no value if his father decided to keep her on.

"Brother?" came a small voice from behind thick doors. Rhaegar's attention snapped back to the heavily decorated wood. "Rhaegar!"

"Aye, Viserys?" he asked conversationally, making himself comfortable on the ground to the Septa's great horror. Her hands fluttered about in a manner that suggested she would even offer him her robe to sit on if only he requested it. Rhaegar dismissed her worry with an amused snort. "What is it, brother mine?"

When Viserys had been born, Rhaegar was already a boy, playing in the yard with other noble children of the court and not so noble children of servants. No one had cared very much so long as they kept out of the way of the adults. But Viserys had made much of a change in his brother's life. Rhaegar had had some friends, but no one he considered a sibling. Viserys had been different. They were the same blood. And for that reason, Rhaegar had sworn to always take care of him, no matter what life threw their way. He would not fail.

Their mother had abandoned them in such a permanent manner that even hope was crushed in her wake. Rhaegar understood it better than his brother and he knew the meaning behind her gesture, yet he could not find it in his heart to forgive it. Though he knew it did little good to bear anger towards the deceased and that nothing could change the past, his heart refused to make peace with his mother's decision. There had been a time when he had depended solely upon her and she had been there for him every step of the way, yet she had stolen the same joy from her younger son. And that Rhaegar would not let go of.

"I want the Septa to go away," his brother finally said.

A simple gesture of dismissal was enough to send the rotund woman on her way. He waited until she was out into the hall. "Will you open the doors now that she had gone away?"

"Are you sure she has?" Viserys countered.

"I am very sure she has," Rhaegar offered. He heard the sound of wood and metal crashing and attributed that to his brother pulling the bar from the door. He stood to his feet then. "Come on, then, open the doors."

The doors opened with a creak and a tearstained face peered back at him. Rhaegar could not do anything other than kneel to better inspect the visage staring up at him. He touched an angry red line. "What is the meaning of this?" There was no need to wonder who had dared raise a hand in anger at his brother given that there was really only one person he was constantly around.

Viserys' lips trembled and a fresh stream of tears ran down one cheek. But he did not give his brother an answer in words. The boy simply flew into Rhaegar's arms and wrapped his thin limbs in a strong grip around his brother. Rhaegar lifted him up in his arms instinctively.

* * *

Aerys remembered Joanna well. Joanna Lannister before and after her marriage, the King remembered every tiny detail of the beautiful Lady Joanna. If there was ever a person to whom he truly felt emotionally attached then it had to be the proud Lannister maiden who had swept quite unexpectedly into his life.

He had been no more than a boy the first time he met her, barely four and ten and curious to see his sister's new companions. Rhaella was two and ten and just as excited at the prospect of company her own age after a lifetime spent in the careful sight of their sour, bovine Septa whom both children loathed to such extremes that they banded against her whenever the opportunity presented itself.

They had done so that day as well. Rhaella had tricked the creature into her rooms by using the ruse of illness. She had complained of an aching stomach and swore up and down her innards were being torn apart until their exasperated, haggard caretaker saw no other solution but to order the girl to her room and follow. Aerys had kept in line until she was inside then he picked the biggest tome in the room and threw it at the Septa mercilessly. His sister took her opportunity to run from the grip inflicted upon her and made her way to him. The Septa was slow to move, on account of her impressive girth. They had an easy time of locking the doors and barring the entrance.

After that they'd ran together down the halls, laughing gaily at their heroics. They had been close in age and united in their dislike of the cow sent to watch them by their too busy parents. Aerys had regarded her with warmth then and for some years after. Nonetheless, his true love had been a little lioness with a sweet smile and sparkling emerald eyes.

Joanna had not been the first lady introduced; a Dornishwoman preceded her, tall and dark, and the oldest of them all at five and ten. She would later become the ruling Princess of Dorne. That one had stayed at the court for less than a full year. Joanna had followed, a girl of four and ten, beautiful and bright and so charming Aerys could not help the wild thumps of his heart. She had curtsied politely and won his sister over with some comment on her dress. Rhaella had been as thoroughly charmed as her brother.

It was in fact the very same Joanna that held together the friendship that bloomed between Rhaella, the Dornishwoman and herself. She was kind and understanding where Rhaella was sulky and spoiled. She was grace and levity where his sister was clumsy and inept. She taught Rhaella the grace that had characterised her later in life, the only trait that Aerys ever grew to appreciate in the reticent wife the Gods cursed him with. It was both a blessing and a pest to be reminded of the woman he could not have throughout his marriage, for Rhaella had strived to emulate the Lannister maiden as sure as a squire tried to follow into his master's footsteps.

It had not taken long to truly fall for her. Aerys hadn't been the most outgoing of boys, but for her he tried to shed the encumbering shyness which seemed to cripple him whenever he tried to impress the maiden. He supposed he grew wild in his ways and continued to do so under the influence of Joanna's smiles, sweet and appreciative. She had grown fond of him herself, Aerys would like to believe. Joanna was a naturally affectionate person and she displayed that trait like a peacock did its feathers. Her light was bound to attract others.

And it had. Unfortunately for Aerys, it had been his friend Tywin that she won over. Tywin was, even as a boy, a grim sort of person with a wide streak of firmness which pertained to whatever goal he had in mind. Tywin had always been the true leader in their friendship, but until Joanna came along Aerys had not minded that. But to see the girl his heart ached for turn all her attention upon his friend was a blow Aerys never quite recovered from.

He had warned Tywin not to pursue Joanna, that he intended to make her queen, his queen. And though Tywin had pretended to listen, Aerys was sure that he had been the one to tell the future king of his son's apparently misplaced affections. Jaehaerys had wasted not a moment in summoning his wayward son and correcting whatever assumptions the prince had dared make.

"Put away whatever thought you have of the girl," his father had instructed him, firmly, but not unkindly. "It is your duty to the realm to wed your sister and by her have the prince that was promised." A sickly man, but otherwise sound of mind, his father had been a good man and a good king. Though his belief in the prophecy of a woods witch had hardened his heart against his son begging to be allowed to wed the one he loved. Aerys had been six and ten then and fully convinced he could dissuade his father.

Alas he had failed and the price was paid by both himself and his sister. Rhaella had by that time come upon a lowly knight whom she claimed to have fallen in love with. Neither her tears, nor her pleas moved their father in his decision. They were wed before she finally reached the age of five and ten in the sight of Gods and men alike in Baelor's Sept.

When he saw his sister walk towards him that day with tears in her eyes and the remnants of sorrow on her cheeks, Aerys told himself he would try to be an accommodating husband to her. But his eyes had fallen on Joanna, recently betrothed to her cousin Tywin. She was smiling and it needled him that she could be so blatantly happy when he was drowning in misery.

It was said that the then reigning King, Aegon the Fifth, had married for love, though his wife had long since died, and to the great grief of the realm allowed his sons to do the same. Aerys could see nothing wrong in wedding a woman he loved but even he saw the dark stares of still living resentment burn into the eyes of lords whose daughters had been cast aside.

Squaring his shoulder and hardening his heart against his own sorrow, Aerys said his vows before High Septon and realm and begun the uneasy path of restoring balance. He had placed aside his personal inclinations and did his duty as Rhaella did hers. Theirs had not been a wedded bliss, but they understood that some things had to be done. Duty was a cold comfort.

Then the tragedy of Summerhall came. Both their father and grandfather were united in their attempt to restore the main power of House Targaryen, dragons. Nothing worked, as it were, and Aegon the Fifth met his end, along with his firstborn son. On that day, Rhaella gave birth to Rhaegar, whom Aerys had named for her, despite his father's later insistence to give the child a name fit for a king. He had promised his sister that the babe was as much hers as his, so Rhaegar he remained. And Rhaella had loved the boy fiercely. Despite it not translating into a love for her husband, they got on even better after that point.

Jaehaerys was crowned King and Aerys chose to retreat to Dragonstone with his wife and son. He did it to get away from court and from the ever jovial Joanna Lannister, a new wife and ostentatiously delighted. He could not bear witness to that; however, instead of swallowing his weight in wine as he'd done on her wedding night, Aerys chose to disappear.

What followed was a couple of years of relative peace. Rhaella and he watched their son grow and they themselves grew in more ways than one. No longer was Rhaella his sister of long ago, she was his wife and the mother of his son. She was not Joanna, but Aerys tried to bottle up his resentment over that fact. She could not be faulted, just as he himself could not. They tried to make the best of what they had.

Aerys was well and truly shocked to find out about his father's death. Once more he dutiful uprooted his family and had them brought back to King's Landing. He bestowed upon his wife the same crown he had dreamed of placing on Joanna's head once upon a time. His Queen's first mistake was to bring Lady Joanna back to court though, just as Aerys instated Tywin Lannister as Hand of the King. His sister might not have been ill-intentioned in her decision but she only succeeded in waking a black hunger in her husband.

Thus, Joanna was to be avoided at all times. The fact that she was always in his wife's presence, meant that Aerys had neither the desire, nor the strength to see said wife. Rhaella was likely pleased by his frequent absences and prolonged trips outside the Capitol. It gave her the freedom she craved. But Aerys felt shackled and powerless to stop his torment. Absence only seemed to make his heart grow fonder of the Lady Joanna who would never be his.

Instead of allowing himself to wallow, the newly minted King threw himself in his work and locked his obsession with the fair haired wife of his Hand away in some dark corner of himself which he dared not disturb. He tried to act as if he were pleased when news came of Joanna bearing her husband twins, he sent his well-wishes through Tywin and promptly concentrating of forgetting his woes in his wife's obedience in the marriage bed. It was a battle not to wonder how those children looked. It was a battle not to compare Rhaella with Joanna. It was an exhausting war, for though Aerys found his wife lacking, he held on with both hands to a crumbling marriage. Obedient she might have been, but Rhaella was also resentful, just as he was. And their bitterness was not a good foundation; it only grew over the years, solidifying into frustrations and aggravations, until the keg of powder exploded like wildfire.

The Defiance of Duskendale was the spark. It was then that he saw for the first time the true faces of the people around him. Aerys had wanted to take credit, for once. Instead he found himself captured and held captive, locked in a dark, dank cell with nothing but rats to keep him company. And no one came for him. Not Rhaella whom he trusted to at least rally the noble houses to his cause, and not Tywin whom he thought at least had some respect for his King.

He had endured slight upon slight from the arrogant lord of Duskendale . He gritted his teeth in remembrance of nights filled with terror and days of feverish dread. He though he would die there, among the rats and dirty straw. But the Gods had seen him through, yet at what price.

Nothing was the same in his world once the sun touched his face again. Ser Barristan would have done better to let him die in the dark. A disillusioned King was dangerous. Aerys no longer trusted anyone of his small circle and even worse, the only person who might have had a chance of getting through to him had died while he was suffering at the hands of his captors. Aerys took that as a sign. Joanna had died along with the man he had once been and Aerys vowed revenge.

The Darklyns were eradicated. Rhaella was not safe, Tywin even less so. His wife was no longer among the living. It was time to turn his attention upon his Lord Hand.

"What news have you for me, Spider?" he asked the darkness that loomed all around.

"It seems that an interesting event had occurred at Casterly Rock," the bald man began.


	3. Chapter 3

Tybolt Hetherspoon gave the maester a vaguely annoyed look. The old man had come running into the main hall and disturbed the meal for every last member of the family. He stood up nonetheless and stalked towards the trembling man who clutched to his chest a piece of paper. It looked to be a message brought by raven.

"What is this about, maester?" the head of House Hetherspoon asked, crossing the length of the floor in a graceful manner. "Let us have this conversation in my solar."

He led the older man by the arm, up the stairs towards the solar he had mentioned. There was no reason to worry his wife needlessly. The closer they got to the designated spot the more the maester's shivers grew in intensity until his whole body shook and Tybolt was not quite certain how they would manage the last few steps. But he made an effort and they did indeed make it to the solar unscathed.

Sitting down in his usual place, near the window, Tybolt looked up at the cerulean sky. He waited a few moments in silence, observing a fat white cloud rolling by. The realm was at peace, at least to hear the people speak, the crops were growing and the climate had not taken a turn for the worse yet. What could possibly go wrong and put their maester in such a mood? The man was fretful in a manner dictated by his own nature, but his behaviour was both unusual and disquieting.

"My lord," the maester began in a tremulous voice, small and almost choked, "we have received a raven from the Rock." That caught Tybolt's attention. His daughter was a ward at the Rock. He gave the maester a penetrating stare. "The news is not good, my lord."

"What happened to my Melara?" Instinctively he jumped to his feet and advanced upon the old man, hands balling into fists. Melara was his only child and she and his lady had worked so very hard to have her. "Is it an illness?"

The maester shook his head. He swallowed thickly before replying. "Lady Melara seems to have disappeared, my lord. Lord Lannister's daughter says that her companion must have slipped out sometime during the night when she slept."

"Impossible. My Melara would never do such a thing!" Tybolt exploded, face reddening at the implications.

"They are searching for her even now, according to the message," the maester said, perhaps in an attempt to soothe his lord.

"How long has it been since my daughter's disappearance?" he demanded in a voice thick with emotion. If they sent the raven it meant that it had been quite some time since she had supposedly left. The maester's throat worked but no words came out his mouth. Irritated, Tybolt grounded out the question one more time, "How long, maester?"

"It has been near five days, counting this one." The words fell upon his like a ton of boulders. Tybolt sucked in a breath, feeling his chest squeeze painfully under the influence of fear bearing down upon an already troubled mind. "Shall you write back to the Rock, my lord?"

"Write back, he says," Tybolt muttered under his breath and stalked past the maester. He would write to no one. Nay, not him. Tybolt would not wait with his hands behind his back. If Lord Lannister to whom he had entrusted his daughter's safety did not do his duty then the father would ask retribution.

He knew Melara, she was a good girl. There was no reason for her to leave Casterly Rock like a thief in the night when she had been so excited to go there in the first place. Before Joanna Lannister's death she had brought to Casterly Rock a gaggle of children to keep company with her twins until her confinement was over. Unfortunately Lady Lannister had died after birthing an ill-formed child that was spoken of in hushed tones at all times. And with her death most children were sent back to their parents by a grieving Lord Lannister. Melara had stayed despite that at the insistence of Cersei Lannister.

His daughter had been thrilled, writing home to tell her parents how grateful she was to the Lord Lannister's daughter and that she found Cersei's twin, Jaime, truly worthy of admiration. At her age, most girls did look upon a handsome boy with light in their eyes. Both himself and her mother had been amused when she asked if they could arrange a match between her and Jaime. They had replied that attempts would be made.

He should have just called her back home and the Others take Jaime Lannister and his sister. Tybolt cursed as he passed a couple of guards on his way to the stables. "Gather my best men!" he ordered the two. "And make ready, all of you; we are travelling to Casterly Rock as soon as the horses and provisions have been taken care of."

The stablemen were quick to assure him that they would make haste. So Tybolt had nothing left to do but return to the hall and rely the news to his wife. A hiss came shuddering through his teeth. How was he to tell his wife that something unthinkable had happened to their sole child? Tybolt considered his options. Whatever the truth was, his wife had the same right to know as he. Thus making up his mind, the man walked back towards where he knew she would be waiting for him.

His wife greeted him with a small smile and a questioning gaze. Tybolt watched her standing beside the window, bathed in sunlight. He opened his mouth to tell her what the letter had said, but he could not get one word out.

"Husband," she murmured, her smile dropping. Her eyes lost some of their warmth and she crossed her arms over her chest as if to protect herself. Her brow furrowed. "Is the news worrisome?" She did not however hesitate to walk towards him and stand straight as a rod before familiar eyes, silently demanding an answer.

"Melara," he began but choked on the word. Clearing his throat he made another attempt, "Our Melara is missing." Though he had forced every ounce of strength in the statement it came out as a frightened whisper.

But his wife had been close enough and attentive; she caught every word and a gasp of disbelief fought its way past her lips, which was promptly accompanied by her hands rising to rest on her neck and mouth. "Nay," she moaned out pitifully. "How? Missing? How is that possible?" Her voice grew rough with the effort of holding back emotion.

Bringing an arm around her to offer support, Tybolt attempted to shushed her. "I shall find her, my lady. I shall find her and bring her back home." His wife caught his doublet in a strong grip, fingers pulling on the material. Pain bloomed on her face and Tybolt did not have it in his heart to add to her misery by telling her just how long it had been since Melara had last been seen. "Hush, now. I will return with our daughter," he promised.

"My daughter," the woman whispered brokenly. "What if something has happened to her?" A sob broke free of her lips and tears streaked down her face. "Tybolt, please, find her. I beg you, find her!" She continued to cry softly on his shoulder as her husband hugged her close.

Something oppressive descended upon them in that moment. It was not explainable, they had not conjured such a wave of sadness, but nonetheless it hit both parents at the same time. Something terrible had happened. Yet none dared voice such a premonition. If there was still a chance that their daughter could be found, they would cling to that like the drowning man clung to a piece of wood in hopes of salvation.

Lady Hetherspoon saw the men off, still whimpering and brushing away tears. Tybolt hadn't dared order her to her private rooms. He knew she would not comply. In fact she had wanted to join them and dissuading her had been a trial in and of itself. His assurances that he would bring their daughter back to her arms was regarded with, not suspicion exactly, but a manner of disbelief that bordered on distrust. She was worried, that he understood, but he still left her with a heavy heart.

The ride to Casterly Rock was not a long one, or a particularly uncomfortable one, and yet to Tybolt the leagues between the keep he called home and the imposing seat of House Lannister felt like they were growing longer with each step he took. The horse galloping beneath him seemed to slow down and not go faster. Time itself was pulling him back, refusing his advance. Tybolt cursed. He would get to the Rock if he had to crawl on his elbows and knees.

"Faster!" he ordered the line of men following him. They did not hesitate to please him.

The gates of Casterly Rock did not stay closed to them. In fact, as soon as Tybolt had identified himself as Lord Hetherspoon the soldiers at the gate tripped all over themselves to open the doors for him and his small company of men. That was his first clue that not all was well. The Lannisters were lords and masters of these lands, they did not concern themselves with lower houses, unless some interest rested there.

Tybolt spurred his horse on, not sparing the rest of his men a glance. They could either keep up or fall behind. More pressing matters concerned him. Near the stables he was forced to relinquish his seat on his horse. A boy hurried to take the beast away. Tybolt simply threw him the reins and instructed him to take care of the animal. The men that had caught up to him were served in much the same manner.

Walking away, hurriedly, Tybolt almost did not stop as a servant stepped in his way. He had half a mind to push the man away, an invitation that could not be refused was issued, as it coincided with his own plans. "Lord Lannister invites you to his solar, my lord."

Tywin Lannister, the true Lion of Casterly Rock, waited for his guest in a well lit solar. Tybolt however had not come to gawk at the riches of House Lannister. He paid no mind to the opulent interior. Instead he walked with his head held high, and refuses to lower his eyes from Tywin's own hard stare.

"My lord," he greeted the man respectfully, without an ounce of inflection though. "I am here on the matter of my daughter, Melara."

The Lion offered a nod, but his gaze remained cold. The word was that Lady Joanna had taken the man's heart with her in the grave. Tybolt would have agreed if he had believed that Tywin Lannister did in fact have a heart in his chest.

"I presume you are not aware of the liaison your daughter took part in then." So shocking was the implied accusation that Tybolt needed a moment to blink away the disbelief. Tywin however was not waiting for an answer. "She is believed to have absconded with her lover five nights past."

"Melara had no such unhealthy connections. My daughter would not have done such a thing." If he were to believe a word of what Lord Tywin had told him, then he would need solid proof. "Unless evidence can be provided to confirm her elopement, I remain unconvinced. It is an insult to my daughter's good name and that of our house."

"Apparently she left a letter. It was found mere hours after the raven had been sent." He produced the parchment and held it out to the concerned father for viewing.

Tybolt barely held himself back from snatching the paper away. He unfolded it and his heart fell into his stomach. "My lord, 'tis not Melara's hand."

Something dark entered the Lion's eyes then. He gave a sharp nod. "My men are still searching. You may wish to join them."

"That I would, Lord Lannister." Tybolt gathered his strength and turned to leave. "If my daughter has been harmed-"

* * *

Twigs snapped and broke, the soft sound of footsteps audible even amid the noise. The grass was soft and damp, the air somewhat cool and the sun had hidden itself away behind the clouds once more. In other words, it was a fairly typical northern day. The leaves rustled gently, splattering the white bark of the weirwood in gory blots.

Lyanna ended her prayer and climbed to her feet. She turned around in time to see her older brother stumble closer to her, breathing hard and muttering to himself. Patiently, she waited for him to speak. Ned gave her a murderous look. "Where in the name of the gods have you been all this time?"

"Why, brother, I've been here." Her answer did not seem to ease the tension any. "Why, has something happened?"

"Don't lie, Lyanna. You weren't here. I came looking here first." Her gaze hardened as his hand shot out and wrapped around her shoulder, pulling her forth. "Father is beside himself. He knows." Those hissed words struck her.

"He does?" That was not particularly good. "Well then, I suppose I must not keep him waiting any longer. I take it that he does wish to see me." There was little question about that. Lyanna gave a soft exasperated smile at her brother's groan. "Don't take on so. It shall be fine."

While Ned did not seem inclined to believe her, Lyanna found that she was not bothered by that. Taking his hand, they walked together towards the keep. Silence had fallen between them, blanketing both siblings. It was no awkward pause in a conversation, but a means of bonding in itself. Where other needed words, they required peace, solitude. It had been their way and it was no stranger than the relationship between any other two siblings.

"When are you leaving?" Lyanna finally asked. She had forgotten to question him on that.

"In a few days," Ned replied, squeezing her hand gently. "You'll have father, Brandon and Benjen all to yourself then."

"The joy." Her dispassionate reply prompted a chuckle from him. Lyanna returned it with a smile. "Brandon should try to convince father it is time for him to wed. I have grown tired of his hovering."

"He means well," her brother pointed out. "You're just too stubborn for your own good, Lya."

It might be, but Lyanna still thought that Brandon's worry was incessant and annoying and all that it should not be. "I wish to feel protected, safe, of course. But I do not want to be smothered. You know, between the two of them, father and Brandon are likely to drive me insane."

"They would chain you within your bedchamber and set hounds all around you, if ever they thought it acceptable" Ned laughed, clearly amused at her exasperation. Far from appreciating the behaviour, the sister threw him a dirty look. "Come now. It is not so bad. You are reckless."

"I hardly think riding is reckless," she countered softly, momentarily jerking away from him. Ned caught her quickly. "Oh, Ned. Now you are leaving me too. You know how I dislike having to contend with Brandon's antagonising ways and father's constant worry."

"Then don't give them reason to." That piece of advice was not much help no matter how Lyanna handled it. Everything worried father these days. "Well, he should have just buried me with mother. Then he wouldn't have to worry about me constantly."

Before Ned could reply, their father was upon them. "Lyanna Stark, what have I told you about riding?"

Sighing, Lyanna looked up at her parent's narrowed eyes. "That I am not to ride without proper supervision. That either your or Brandon or Ned must be with me if I do go riding."

"And who was with you when you went riding this morn?" he questioned menacingly.

A grimace later, Lyanna had to admit to the truth of the matter. "No one was with me, father. But I am an able rider." Her arguments were not going to be of much help. That much she knew. Lyanna crossed her arms over her chest despite it. "I am a good rider," she insisted at the glare levelled her way.

"I do not care!" The yell left her father's mouth in such a loud manner that the few men in the yard could not help their staring. "You will not be riding alone again, Lyanna. I won't have it. You could become sick and fall over. You could injure yourself. You could die."

Anger flared up inside of her. "I am not her, father. I am not her and it is not fair to blame me for some else's mistakes."

"Do not speak to me of her." His voice held nothing but stony stubbornness. They were never allowed to speak about her anyway. Lyanna was used to that, yet it rankled. "Never dare to speak to me of her."

"This is absurd. She was my mother," the girl exploded. Her father's face went white. He turned on his heel and stormed away, leaving behind a couple bewildered faces and an unsettled daughter. Lyanna started to follow, but Ned held her back. Her head whirled around. He shook his own dissuadingly.

"Don't. Father shan't listen to a word you say. You know that." He held fast even as she struggled. "Lyanna, he shall only grow angry at the daring. And you know better than to mention her."

"She's our mother, Ned. Shall I erase every memory of her?" Ever since her death, father had been unable to bear the thought of someone else close to him dying. He'd built a wall around himself, high and strong, and whenever something seemed wrong, her would retreat behind it.

"Her death hurt him more than you could ever know. You don't remember it, Lya, but I do. I saw her. And I can't forget it." He took a deep breath, his voice had started shaking. "But father was the one who found her."

She had gone missing one day. No one had worried when she failed to appear by midday. Lyarra Stark was a fine rider and all knew how she enjoyed long outings. Who could have known that she'd fallen off the horse? That thought hadn't crossed anyone's mind. They had all waited for her to appear. But then the sun went down and she still hadn't returned. Father had started worrying. Lyanna couldn't remember much of anything about that day. She had been playing with her youngest brother, Benjen, rocking his cradle and singing him songs when Old Nan had entered the room and told her it was time to head off to slumber.

She hadn't even heard the angry yells that followed as father assembled the men and went out searching. Lyanna had slept as they brought her mother in, her corpse a mangled bundle of torn flesh. Her spine had been broken during the fall and she had hit her head on a sharp rock. Maester Walys seemed of the opinion that she had been dead long before the wolves ever reached her. It hadn't been a comfort, to be sure, yet she hadn't suffered through the mauling. Lyanna had probably been dreaming when her body had been washed and wrapped in clean linens.

Ned had been awake though. He had gone out searching. But he hadn't seen mother. It was, indeed, father who found her – what was left of her. They had brought her back and cared for the remnants as was proper.

In the morning Lyanna had been led down to the crypts, her hand clasped tightly in father's own. Only her mother's face could be seen, framed by dark hair. Frightened, Lyanna had tried to wake the woman up. But she hadn't managed to.

Since that day, Lord Rickard Stark had refused to enter the crypts. In fact they had been sealed shut and no one was to set one foot within. Lyanna knew that Ned was right. She hadn't seen even half of what they had. But Lyarra Stark had been her mother too. She too had lost a parent, an important person in her life.

"What do you want me to say?" She shook off his hold and started walking. Yet she did not go after her father. Ned had the right of it in that he would not listen anyway until he'd calmed down. "I'll go see how Benjen's lessons are coming along," she called out over her shoulder.

"Then I'll join you." Her brother ran up behind her. He took her hand once more. "Don't take it to heart, Lya. It will get better. He will get better."

"I hope so." They couldn't continue to live with her ghost hanging over them. "She wouldn't have wanted him to carry on so. She would have wanted us to live."

"She would have," Ned agreed. "But we can't force the issue. He has to come to that conclusion on his own."

Together they walked to the balcony where Maester Walys was teaching their brother. A few words were exchanged and they sat down to listen to the history of Westeros.

* * *

Cersei had seldom seen her father angry. And when he was thus, it was not directed at her. Yet her time had come, it seemed. She squared her shoulders as Tywin Lannister entered her chamber, his face a mask of indifference. It was his eyes that gave him away. There was no doubt about, she had been caught in her lie. But Cersei refused to give up without a fight. She was a lioness.

"Father," she greeted him with her customary smile.

"Daughter," Tywin returned her greeting in a deceptively calm voice. "Explain this to me." He held out a piece of paper. Cersei knew its contents to the last letter. She lowered her eyes to the piece of parchment.

"Is that not Melara's letter?" she asked, feigning confusion. Still, she took it from her father's hand and brought it closer to eye level; she mouthed the words as if she had never before seen them. Perhaps he had not found out, after all. Melara was a maiden flowered; it was not that difficult to believe she had attracted the eye of some boy close to them in age. "That explains everything."

"Do not lie to me, Cersei," her father warned and the girl had no choice but to look up at him with round, shining eyes. "Who wrote this?"

"Melara," she replied confidently. The truth was what she made it. Cersei took a moment to congratulate herself, but at the look of cool disappointment on her father's face she froze, a half smile on her lips. "It must have been her. Who else could have written it?" Cold sweat broke out on her back and Cersei tried to gauge just how much longer she could keep up her pretence.

It was unexpected. It was harsh. It almost knocked her off her feet. Cersei cried out when her father's palm connected with her cheek, sending a wave of pain running through her face. She brought a small, shaky hand to the abused flesh and tears stung her eyes. Never in her life had she been that, not even when mother caught Jaime and herself at their play. She had warned them never to do so again in an angry voice, but that had been all.

"Father," she said softly. Shock marred her features. Why would he hit her? Her lips pressed together, the telltale sign that she would burst into a real bout of tears.

"Cersei, who wrote this?" he questioned again, stepping closer, towering over her. His perceived cruelty and the impressive sight he made, standing before her like the Titan of Bravoos, stole away her courage, or at least the easy impunity with which she had lied to him before. "The hand is not Melara's." His harsh stare tore right through her, through layers of armour she had gathered for his moment.

Cersei's mouth hung open and confusion passed her face. "It is not my hand either," was the only thing she could think to say. Surely they could not blame her, if the hand was not hers.

"You try my patience." Tywin took her by the shoulders, his grip bruising. "If you do not want to find yourself flogged, daughter, you will answer me truthfully."

She could not. Cersei would never admit to having pushed Melara down that well. She knew what the fate of murderers was. And she refused to hang for a mistake that had been Melara's to being with. She should have never aspired to have her Jaime. Cersei stubbornly kept her mouth shut, straightening her back. She would not be weak. She would not show her fears. Everything had been going so well. Her father had believed her. What made him change his mind, she wondered.

"I see you have nothing to say. Very well then. Until the girl is found you will not be permitted to leave your rooms," Tywin decreed. "Jaime will not come to see you either. You are to take all your meals and lessons here, on your own." He thumped his hand on the lacquered table and gave his daughter a challenging look, daring her to fight his decree.

Cersei did. She grew flustered and tremulous, but she opened her mouth and voiced her protest to such treatment. "I did nothing wrong. I do not deserve to be locked here." The need to make water became pressing as her father's glare intensified. She was not sure if her trembling was visible or if it was only her imagination. "I am your daughter."

"Than act like it," her father growled. He turned on his heel and walked out the door without a single look back at her. The door slammed in his wake and Cersei was left alone in a world dominated by silence. The girl fell to her knees.

She wanted to beg her father to come back and change his mind, to let her out. But he would not do so unless she told him about Melara. And she could not, for her very life, tell him. Melara was dead. Melara could not speak. Unless they found the body. Had they? Was that why her father demanded all of a sudden to know who had written that letter.

Cersei tanked the Seven she hadn't been foolish enough to write it herself. She had convinced a nameless girl to do it, by giving her some copper coins, which the wretch had been happy enough to take. Of course, she hadn't thought to match the writing with Melara's hand. What good would that do? Melara, no longer being among the living, could never prove she hadn't written it. And it had worked. Everyone had searched for the disappeared girl in the company of a young man. They'd found nothing but they had kept busy all the same. Cersei had felt assured in her safely then. Had they found the body, someone would have told her anyway. And who would think to look for her in the old well? She would never be found.

Feeling slightly better, Cersei went to sit down on a pile of cushions. They would search for her a few more days and then they would give up and Cersei would be free again. More than that she would have Jaime all to herself. A thrill shot through her at the thought. Perhaps Melara's death would bring something good after all. She hugged a pillow to her chest, crossing her arms protectively over the embroidered surface and hoped it would make her feel less alone. Reclining back against the pillows she closed her eyes and drifted off to sleep, a small smile of victory on her face.

Once again her dreams were tortured vision of rising dead. This time from the well sprang not Melara, or the twisted body of her little brother, but the elegant figure of a woman. She was radiant even when covered in blood. Her beauty was eerie, wrapping cold fingers around Cersei's heart and squeezing. There was nothing distinctive about her. The eyes she looked through changed colour whenever Cersei met them. Her hair travelled through a wide spectrum of shades, from inky black to silver blond. Only one thing was clear to Cersei and that was that she was running through the woods, the woman walking calmly behind her.

She tried to scream. She tried to hide. But nothing worked. Danger breathed down her neck, chasing her through bushes of brambles that cut through the skin of her legs mercilessly. Her muscles screamed in protest as she pushed herself father, trying to lose the shadow that haunted her.

Suddenly a branch appeared out of nowhere and Cersei slammed into it with momentum. She fell backwards, blood dripping from her nose and filling her mouth. She gagged on its taste and tried to spit it out, but it kept accumulating, cutting off her breath. She was drowning in her own blood.

The Gods did not think it enough though, for then a heaviness settled on her chest and thick fingers wrapped around her neck. Tyrion's twisted face appeared before her. The valonqar, her mind whispered nastily, he was there to take her life. A scream bubbled on her lips but all that came out was blood. Cersei tried to shove him away, but somehow the little monster remained atop of her, twisting incredibly large hands around her neck.

Perhaps the worst was that behind him stood the same woman, beautiful and smiling. Her joy mocked the dying girl on the ground. She smiled because Cersei was dying. She smiled because blood poured out Cersei's mouth and her lungs were slowly failing her. The unknown woman smiled gaily because she had won.

Then everything went pitch black and Cersei tore herself off the bed with a yell. She landed unceremoniously on the floor, the blanket twisted around her. Panic had her looking left and right, searching for her malicious younger sibling and that woman whose face she could not place. She pushed the blanket away, freeing herself on its hold.

A knock on the door startled her once more.


	4. Chapter 4

The hounds bayed and yelped, running along the dusty road. Half a dozen men followed them, grumbling and talking amongst themselves. They had been sent out to search for Lady Melara, pulled from their respective responsibilities and though they did not like that, Lord Lannister was not to be denied. Add to which that most of them had known the little lady that had disappeared and refusal was not an option.

It had been swiftly agreed upon that Lady Melara couldn't have run off with anyone of their acquaintance. Lord Tywin had gathered all men, squires, peasants and knights. All were accounted for. Melara's own father protested the idea that she might have eloped with an unknown man.

Of course, not a soul knew about Cersei's predicament. The Hand of the King had interdicted gossip and his servants were too loyal or too frightened to disobey. As it was, the worse supposition was that Lady Melara had been abducted while taking a walk. Some thought the poor dear might be somewhere in the woods, lost. Others reckoned wild beasts had devoured her. It was all the same, people had to search for her and bring back either the girl or her corpse. Lord Tywin had been most insistent.

Among these people there was a crofter. He was neither old, nor young, with an unremarkable face and of ordinary height. A good worker, he earned his keep, but never went out of his way to appear useful in his lord's eyes. He seemed content with the little he had. Soft-spoken and calm of temper, he could be counted upon to quell any argument and be of an amiable disposition towards all people who crossed his path. Nothing of note set him apart from the rest of his brethren and yet he was most definitely not the same.

A fact known only by the crofter's oldest daughter was that he was no mere worker. In fact the crofter was the eyes and ears of an important man about court. He informed this person on which happened without the Lord Hand's walls and never failed to bring important news. In exchange for that his daughter might one day be admitted as a scullery maid in the Red Keep or some other important seat across Westeros. The man was determined that she would not live and die in the little village of her birth.

It was for that exact reason that when it became apparent that Lady Melara would not stumble back on her own he had the news delivered with utmost haste. The more he gave, the more secure his daughter's position was. After all, the Spider did not make empty promises. If the Master of Whisperers could not procure a place for his girl than no one could. And so, the simple crofter set into motion the prophecy of an old maegi, albeit unwittingly and with the best of intentions. Had he knows what would happen, he might have refrained from speaking just that one time.

Varys had made it so as to encounter the company on the main road as if by chance. He had disguised himself as a mean-born man and asked if he might assist them. The more the merrier seeming to be the general motto of these people, he was ushered into their group and made the acquaintance of all that has gone on. What he heard did not shock him. It was to be expected. A poor child had disappeared into the night without a trace. Days had gone by and not one word of her.

They walked along the worn path, looking left and right for any sign of the child. None was to be had. Not even the golden rays of the sun were of much help. Light could not find Lady Melara. Varys thought it safe to assume that darkness had a hold of her then. But where?

The hounds barked and started squabbling over a bone they had found. A couple of men cursed and went after the beasts, trying to pry them apart. Varys took a moment to watch them. He hid a smile. How very like humans those beasts were. They lacked the artifice, of course, but the rest was all there. It took swearing, kicking and screaming to break the bloody fight, but once it was done, the peasants had had quite enough of looking for the lost girl.

"She is nowhere to be found," an impressively tall man said. "We have searched everywhere and I still have work to do in the forge." The sentiment was echoed by the others.

Slowly the group broke apart and the men wandered off. Only Varys and the crofter remained. They stood in silence for a few moments before one of them decided to speak. "There is an old well not far from here."

Looking into the trees, Varys gave a soft shrug. "Hasn't it been searched?"

"Nobody goes there anymore. It has run dry." The explanation merited some consideration. Varys looked at the man. "Not very deep, if I remember it rightly." He held out a rope. "And I came prepared."

In the face of such consideration Varys could do naught but follow. A well, dark and damp and crammed, no doubt. If the girl had fallen in, she was long since dead. He walked slowly behind the crofter. It took a few minutes to reach their destination and Varys could see clearly that the man had spoken the truth.

A blackened stone well stood proudly in the middle of a small clearing, cobwebs clinging to it. He neared it and took a look at the general view. It was then that he noticed one of the larger cobwebs had been ripped apart. The crofter was busy tying the rope and paid it no mind. Anything could have done it, but given the circumstances the answer Varys had in mind was chilling and horrifying and perhaps not fit for the crofter's ears. The Spider glanced down the well. He could make nothing out.

Without another word, in the crofter went. Varys waited at the lip of the well, peering into the darkness. News would come. Soon. He followed the gentle sway of the rope and wondered what lay at the bottom of the well. A little monster perhaps? Or the victim of some savagery? Varys had seen many crimes, done in the name of love, passion, revenge, pleasure. All were ugly. All were brutal. The degrees differed, of course, but the result was much the same. Had little Lady Melara been a thorn is someone's side, Varys wondered absently.

"There's something here!" the crofter yelled. A small series of shuffles ensued. Varys did not reply. He waited for more information. "It's a human! It's a human."

And that was all Varys really needed to hear. "Bring it up then so we might have a better look at it." His orders were carried out with speed. Already the man was climbing the well's walls, his discovery slung over one shoulder. The more he advanced the clearer Varys could see, until no doubt remained in his mind as to what the crofter had found. He pried away the prize and placed it upon the ground.

Sightless eyes stared at a fixed point somewhere far away. A small mouth was opened in a silent scream, forever frozen in that position. Tangled curls flowed about stiffened limbs, the raven colour stark against the whiteness of the girl's face. From his vantage point Varys could even make out the dried blood forming clumps of her once fine tresses. Small hands were balled into a dirty dress, stained by mud and gore. She looked surprised. A thousand other faces had born the same expression. The whole story became a repetition of history. Varys sighed softly.

"This is her. This is Lady Melara." The crofter followed the statement with a swear. "Lord Lannister won't be pleased."

"Lord Lannister is not to know about this," Varys contradicted the man. "Go home and speak to no one of this." He regarded the man with cool eyes. "I shall send someone for your daughter."

The crofter gulped. He gave a shy look towards the mangled body on the grass and then he gazed at Varys. But in the end he agreed. For his daughter. Varys nodded at him but did not supervise his departure. Instead he went down on his knees and took one of the clenched hands. Spots of black marred the skin.

She was starting to rot. Ah, what a weapon he had found. This girl, he knew, hadn't simply fallen in. This girl had fought to live and she had failed. Varys brushed away a strand of hair from her face. She looked almost like a doll and a doll she would be in the King's schemes. The eunuch wrapped her up from head to toe and took her in his arms.

His men were waiting with a small wagon somewhere further away. His charge was light, but stiff and her scent decidedly unpleasant. Once he arrived at the side of the wagon he ordered Silent Sisters to be brought there.

The girl was to be prepared.

* * *

Tywin had expected that sooner or later someone would come out and divulge the location of Melara Hetherspoon. He had every confidence that the girl had somehow lost herself in the woods on a walk and that she would be found. Men had been sent out to search for her and he had even allowed the girl's father to join them.

When she dared appear again he would send her flying back into her father's arms and order both of them away, never to be allowed in his presence again. What could have possibly possessed her to walk out alone into the night? Had Twyin known the truth he might have gone out in search of Melara himself, but the keep was his main concern. And he wanted to be there in case Cersei shed her stubbornness and decided to speak. Someone had to know something and Tywin would pry out the information by whatever means necessary. The Lannister name would not be stained by neglect.

He pushed away the document he had been reading and stood to his feet. A feeling of dread was lodged in the pit of his stomach. The Lion shook his head and walked to the window. He gazed outside at the shining sun. Bitter pain erupted in his breast. The sun had shone on the day of Joanna's death too. It had been a warm, beautiful day. Tywin grimaced. It was a cruel jape the gods made, a mockery of her death. The sun should have faded with her.

He still remembered her, lying there on the bed those last few days. Her once healthy complexion had gone ashen. Rings of gold lost their brilliance and stuck to her face, filled with the sweat of her fever. Light green eyes became muddled and empty. She had suffered much. Tywin's fist shook at the memory. His wife had been in constant pain then and he hadn't been able to do anything for her, aside from holding her hand. The same helpless anger rushed through his veins at the moment. "Why did you have to go?" he asked the empty room.

It was the dwarf's fault. His son, apparently, for it could not be denied that Joanna had birthed him. Joanna had been cursed to bear that wretched monster, to house him in her womb, only for the ungrateful wretch to kill her. The deformed creature had ripped her to shreds, and yet when they cleansed him and placed the child in her arms, she had smiled. The crooked limbs and too big head had seemed only natural to her fever stricken mind. His poor Joanna had loved the little beastling and that had been what saved Tyrion. His mother's love. If Joanna's heart could accept him then Tywin would not bash his head against jagged rocks in memory and out of respect for her feelings.

Tyrion had gone on living, despite the many times Tywin wished the gods would take him away. He was a blight upon the family's honour, but nothing could be done for it. He only hoped that one day he would wake up to find that the curse no longer plagued him. Tywin had been obliged to wrap the boy in crimson and give him rooms in the keep. Yet the nursery he had made sure to make a dreary place of, finding for the babe a nurse that would show no love to the creature. He would be fed and clothed, and that was all anyone in their right mind could expect the Lord of Casterly Rock to do. Perhaps the boy would be grateful for it in time.

That was, of course, assuming that the little monster was in possession of his wits. But none could tell with such creatures. He was a twisted specimen on the outside, and it might as well reflect his inner workings as well. Even so Tyrion would always owe Tywin his life. Other fathers had disposed of useless children for less. He had kept Tyrion despite his better notions. Joanna would have been kind to him had she lived, perhaps she would have found him a family to live with. Tywin had no such plans for the boy. He would find a use for the child when he grew. Until then it was best to keep him away from all eyes.

At the very least there was still Jaime. Tywin had been the happiest when they put the boy in his arms, Joanna rocking Cersei gently. Jaime was his heir; the boy showed promise with the sword and a natural inclination towards bravery. If only he could be persuaded to apply the same care to his studies as he did to his swords. But there was time for that, Tywin decided.

When Jaime was old enough, he would be taken to court. There he would learn about power and balance and his duty to House Lannister. There was not a shred of doubt in Lord Lannister's mind that his son would take the court by storm. He was a lion, after all, and lions had deafening roars. His sister would work to charm the court and Jaime would make them kneel. Joanna would have approved of such a plan, he knew. She had attempted to instill in her children's mind their rightful duty. Such had been the way of his beloved lady wife.

Never again would anyone look down upon House Lannister and the Lord that ruled the Westerlands. His father had been weak, a weak leader and a weak man, undeserving of his position. Tywin would prove to everyone the mightiness of his house. The other lords would bow to him and respect him, and never take him for a fool. That was his promise, an oath he had made to himself after witnessing the degradation of the Lannister pride. That had been the vow he took after his father's death, when the reins of power fell to him. And it was his current concern as well.

The door opened with a small sound and a squire entered, bearing a platter filled with scrolls. Tywin assumed his earlier position, sitting down in his chair. The boy left the papers on the desk and hurried out as fast as his legs could carry him. He was new in Tywin's service and undoubtedly ill-informed about his overlord's character.

Grumbling something under his breath, Tywin picked the first scroll he saw and pulled apart the string to straighten it. The words swam before his eyes, ink neatly arranging itself to form coherent thought, assembled in neat lines. The writing was unfamiliar, but more than that it was addressed to the deceased Lady Joanna. It was almost liked his thoughts had summoned her spectre back. A wave of uneasiness washed over him as he looked for the signature at the end of the page.

On more than one occasion his wife had tried to convince him to entertain the notion of an alliance with House Martell. She had apparently been very good friends with the ruling Princess of Dorne and they had long ago made plans to become family through the bond of the Seven. Tywin, of course, had different plans for his children. He had explained to Joanna that their little Jaime and sweet Cersei would rise to greater heights.

The Martells were an old house with power in their former kingdom. However the rest of the realm did not look upon them with kind eyes. They were certainly haughty and power-hungry, but the real danger was their cunning. An alliance with the Martells would mean that his daughter would have to be given to them. If Cersei did wed into House Martell she would be a princess, true enough, but without any chance of advancement. As a Princess of the Seven Kingdoms she could become a queen. And that was what Tywin wanted for her.

Cersei had potential. She was a beautiful young girl who promised to rival Joanna's striking looks when she finally became a woman. More than that, she was his daughter. She had the Lannisters behind her. If only he were able to convince Aerys. The Mad King was not called mad without reason.

Aerys had not always been thus. A long time ago, when they were merely children, playing in the flowering gardens of the castle, Aerys had been a charming young lad. Age had corrupted him though. The older he got, the crueller the edge to his smile became. The more he grew, the more he demanded of his companions. He had still possessed his charm, which had certainly helped him a great deal. At one point he had even been regarded as a most fortunate heir to the throne.

The rebellion had changed everything. If there had ever been a moment's decency in Aerys' soul, it fled and withered away to nothing during his imprisonment. His mind had broken. The boy that was died then, in his place a man no one knew or liked.

The Princess had graciously, and rather too quickly, accepted to pack her bags and drag her unmarried children all the way to Casterly Rock for one of them to choose one of Joanna's progenies; one of Tywin's to be more accurate. Well, Tywin would not let that happen. Under no circumstances would he allow all his planning to come to nothing. The Martells would, of course, be allowed under his roof. He could not deny them that. But not even the Father himself would make the Lord of Casterly Rock give his children to the Dornish vipers.

As far as the letter went, its tone was friendly and lively. Evidently, it had been written before Joanna's untimely departure and had arrived, for some reason with much delay. The strong bond between his late wife and the Dornish Princess was undeniable. It leaped off the page in an engaging response to a latter Tywin had not seen. He had rarely bothered himself with Joanna's correspondence. Clearly, he should have paid more attention.

The problem could still be solved. While the intention of the author was quite clear, it might also happen that her children would find more likely matches before reaching the Rock. Tywin certainly favoured such an outcome.

Dwelling on such thoughts would not help his situation. Tywin shook the memories away and concentrated on the letter in front of him. Apparently, Joanna had chosen to ignore his desire and went on to invite the Princess and her children to Casterly Rock. Tywin took no more than a moment to assess the situation.

Joanna had wished for the match and she had worked towards her goal. While Tywin admired her resolve, anger bubbled beneath his skin at her audacity. Occasionally the streak of stubbornness his wife possessed showed through and she did exactly as she wished. It seemed like it was one of those occurrences.

Tywin put the letter away, resolving to give it more thought when it would merit his attention. The Martells were still a long way off. That established, he took out another one of the neatly stacked messages and read through the account of a crime that had taken place not too long ago. It seemed that a man, thinking his wife was betraying him with a neighbour, took an axe to the woman and hid her in the forest. The body had been found and the man had declared himself guilty. It fell to Tywin to decide whether the man should be killed or if he should be sent to the Wall.

Just as he was considering the suitable punishment to be dealt to the perpetrator of the heinous crime, he was interrupted by a knock on the door. His squire poked his head in cautiously, the rest of his body following at a slower pace. "There is a man without, asking permission to see you, my lord," the boy announced. "He says he has news that would interest you, my lord."

Annoyed at the boy's trembling voice, Tywin nodded once, before dismissing him.

"My Lord of Lannister, I hope I am not disturbing," an irritatingly familiar voice intoned.

Green eyes rose to the plump form of the court's one and only Masters of Whisperers, Varys the eunuch.

* * *

Elia laughed behind her hand as Oberyn mimicked for the hundredth time the glances some foolish young knight had sent her way. "Nay, brother, you are wrong," she said a moment later. But still very amused even so. "There was more passion in his gaze, I vow 'twas so." Oberyn, dutiful and loving brother that he was, made another attempt. Elia rewarded him for his effort.

"Had I known it would be this much fun, I would have long ago suggested to mother that we ought to find spouses," Oberys spoke, the sarcasm behind the words leaving no doubt about his mood. The business of finding himself a wife bored him to tears. "Give me one of our beautiful Dornishwomen over these tame wenches any day and I shall be well pleased."

"Oh, come brother." Elia gave him yet again an amused glance, but said no more. Should mother walk in, they would only receive trouble for disparaging the illustrious nobles they had met up until that point.

It was true what her brother said, though. Elia had expected so much more of her journey. Of course, it was easy a business to dream. She had seen only the walls of Sunspear all her life and the thought of roaming the other kingdoms had excited her beyond what words could express. All these high expectations had come crashing down. These people, for all their perceived superiority, were very closed off, reticent and above all ashamed on the most natural things. Why she could scarcely credit their belief about what should go on between men and women. How utterly foolish.

"Perhaps we might convince mother to return after we depart Casterly Rock," her brother interrupted the train of her thoughts. He looked longingly at a small painting of the Dornish desert. How tied he was to their beautiful land. Elia smiled at him in a fond manner.

"Not unless one of us has picked a husband or a wife. She is as stubborn as you are, our mother." It was a true mystery to Elia why people still thought that Oberyn resembled their father. He was close in looks to the man, but she saw more of their mother in his face than she ever had of their father. "I do believe we may still make a good time of it. Think only, we shall see the famed little beastling that Lady Lannister birthed. Do you really think he has a tail?"

"And three heads and an arm more than a man ought to." Obeyn's enjoyment in delivering such outrageous descriptions was no less than Elia's delight in receiving them. "I say he's a veritable creature of songs. Bear in mind, sister, we shall sing to our children about him."

"The beast with two heads too many and other horrors," she offered in a mock-thoughtful manner. "Those shall be great stories and songs, I am certain." Tyrion Lannister was, after all, the main attraction of the Rock as far as the brother and sister were concerned. Elia allowed herself to fall back against the mattress.

Not very long after they had left the safety of Sunspear, the strange and sad tale of Lady Joanna Lannister of Casterly Rock reached their ears. It was frightening to think that a woman in full health could go through such a decline, especially considering she had faced the birthing chamber before. And of course no one forgot to mention the monstrosity that crawled its way out of the poor woman. To hear the say it, Lord Tywin was the father of a creature with the head of a fish, three arms, four legs and a scaly tale. Only the Seven knew how they could speak such nonsense. Entertaining nonsense, but nonsense nonetheless.

When mother had first heard the tale she went white, blood draining from her face, presumably in shock. Then she had blushed furiously at the insult brought to her dear friend. She had insisted in a vocal manner that it was a tale only foolish people would believe. Yet she had been quite curious to hear the description of the child Joanna Lannister had died giving birth to. She had even commented on some aspects, though she had kept from her voice all suggestions of interest. To her mind, and to Elia's too, it seemed impossible that such a creature could be born and yet live.

Stories had followed not long after that of Lord Lannister throwing the babe from atop the cliffs to his death. Some had insisted that he had slain the child before throwing him and other had denied that most heartily, claiming Lord Tywin had simply hurled the creature to its death. Most of them, though, seemed to agree that Tywin Lannister bore his son some sort of grudge. Elia had managed to find out that Lord Lannister had loved his wife dearly, so much in fact that he listened to her every word. It had come to the point where the realm made japes about it, though most of them not ill-intentioned.

Discomforting as it had been for their mother, Elia and Oberyn found it amusing in a dark sort of way. It was that macabre humour that one encountered every so often. They could do little in the face of it but continue japing, Otherwise, it would be just another sad, heart-breaking tale. So the two of them had taken every opportunity to listen to another description of the monster at the Rock, absorbing in the details and commenting upon them in the privacy of their chambers. Mother had not been well pleased by that but she hadn't protested either.

Everybody was talking. It seemed the realm was ever curious in the affairs that did not concerned the public. A few people had said that they'd been to the Rock after Lady Joanna's death, but that they hadn't been permitted to see the child. That had been disappointing. Rumours were all good and well, very entertaining, but Elia had grown curious. She wanted to inspect Lord Tywin's son and see for herself what there was to see.

Mother had warned them quite clearly not to ask after the accursed child. She had insisted that they were to make conversation with the twins of the Rock. That had been her main interest and, indeed, the reason of their journey. Elia, now a woman grown, needed a husband. And who better to provide one than Lady Joanna, the mother of a brilliant boy. Of course, it helped that she also had a daughter. That meant that Oberyn too could find a match for himself. Such had been the dream of two women who wished to become sisters by the bond of matrimony.

Jaime and Cersei the twins were named. Jaime was, according to Joanna's letters, a golden lion cub concerned on working on his roar. He was accomplished with weapons and very charming when he put his mind to it. What was more, he was a kind boy. Elia had been just a bit distrustful of the description. Mothers always seemed to be of the mind that the sun rose and set on their sons. Still, she had painted a nice picture. If only he weren't a child. Her own mother had assured her that being so young he should be easy to manage if she so desired to wed him.

Cersei had been another story. Not few were those who claimed that she was as beautiful as the rising sun. Joanna had called her daughter comely, with the modesty only a mother could affect, but spirited and witty. Elia did think she might suit her brother. But still, the aspect of age could not be erased. Cersei was as young as her brother. She might have been the Maiden herself. If she could not satisfy her brother, Oberyn would not even consider wedding her. And what would become of the well crafted plan then?

With a small creak the door opened and, as Elia looked up, a mildly exasperated look of her face, their mother entered. It was as if she had been summoned through pure thought. Apparently one ought to be careful of what one thought, especially when it concerned mothers. Much like her, Oberyn left his comfortable position to assume a proper stance in front of their parent.

"We are very close to the end of our journey," their mother told them, a small smile playing on her lips. "I just want you to know that I expect you to be on your best behaviour in the Lord Hand's home. No more japing and no inappropriate speech." Her black eyes speared her son at that point. "Is that understood?"

Elia nodded reluctantly, sneaking a glance at her brother. One of Oberyn's eyebrows had raised some, but he accepted his mother's words. Or appeared to do so. One could hardly tell with Oberyn. "We understand," Elia spoke, her voice soft and warm, as she willed her mother to be convinced by the act.

"Good, I consider this your vow," she told them. After that they were left on their own, free to do as they wished.

Oberyn began another sordid and amusing tale for Elia's listening pleasure.


	5. Chapter 5

_A/N: To Reader: Thank you very much. :)_

* * *

"Why does father wish to see me?" Lysa asked, tugging lightly upon the embroidery she had been working on. Catelyn gently took her arms and pushed her firmly out in the hallway, without offering a word n answer. Lysa, though, would not be discouraged by the initial refusal. "Come, Cat, you always know why he wants to see me."

Catelyn merely shook her head. "I cannot tell you anything," she replied in the end as Lysa rocked back on her heels. She then proceeded to arrange the skirts and Lysa's hair. "Father wishes to speak with you, Lysa, and you had best be on your way, else he shall be cross with both of us.

Shrugging, the youngest of the Tully sisters followed the path to her father's solar, wondering what she could have possibly done to warrant a speech. She had been, to her mind, exceedingly well-behaved. She hadn't even teased Cat about her betrothal. Lysa sighed as she reached the door of her father's solar. She knocked on it gently, hoping that he wouldn't hear and she could pretend that she had done as she was told and go back to her play. Unfortunately, Lord Tully's hearing was not at all in peril, even more, he could hear the soft scrape of her slippers on the floorboards.

"Enter," came her father's voice from behind the heavy door.

Left with no alternative, Lysa pushed her whole weight against the door and it opened with a loud sound. She tumbled in with a giggle and was met with her father's hard stare. Arranging herself in a more becoming position, Lysa allowed an innocent smile on her lips. Hoster Tully's gaze softened on the youngest of his daughters. He even smiled at her and with a nod invited the girl to have a seat. That quelled any fear she might have had.

"You wished to see me, father?" Lysa asked sweetly, toying with a tendril of auburn hair. Her natural shyness asserted itself and her gaze fell to the ground, carefully studying the polished wood at her feet. Patience had never been among her more refined qualities and she found that sitting still was growing more difficult with each passing moment.

Hoster seemed to take pity on her and, after what had looked to her to be interminable moments of silence, he spoke. "I have received a letter, my dear Lysa, and I would like to acquaintance you with its contents."

At that her head shot up, blue eyes widening in wonder. "A letter? Is it for me?" There would be no other reason for which her father would wish to read it to her. But if it had been addresses to her, why was father reading it in the first place? Her face flushed and some of the pleasure dissipated as those considerations took root in her heart.

"Not at all, daughter. The letter was addressed to me," Hoster corrected her gently. "It was penned by the Lord Hand on the Seven Kingdoms." And that was news indeed.

"Is it a tourney?" Lysa questioned before Hoster could continue. She might even convince father to allow her to watch the joust. And some brave knight would wear her favour and win and crown her the Queen of Love and Beauty. A longing sigh left her lips.

"Nay, 'tis no tourney," her father answered. The vision before her eyes vanished. Lysa's shoulders slumped. "It is something infinitely better."

"Better than a tourney?" Blue eyes watched the slip of paper suspiciously. What could possibly be better than a tourney? Lysa understood that her father wished her to guess the content of the letter, but for the life of her she could not think of one thing better than a tourney. There would have been knights and ladies and a crown of flowers. Her mournful expression continued to dominate her features. "I do not know, father," she replied truthfully enough. There was no use in prolonging the wait.

"Oh, Lysa. Don't upset yourself," Hoster laughed softly. "I daresay, there will be many a tourney where you shall turn the heads of the knights. Think only, they will trip over themselves to gain your favour." His compliments brought a pleasant flush to her cheeks and a smile to her lips. "Leave all thoughts of tourneys behind for a moment. Is there nothing else you wish for?"

"I want a betrothed, like Cat. He must be brave and handsome." Her fingers entwined as she delivered her heartfelt wish into her father's hands. "Oh, and he must love me as much as I love him." Just like her sister and Brandon Stark, the young girl thought.

"Then you are in luck," Hoster broke through her train of thought. "The Lord Hand has a brave and handsome son and he is in need of a wife for him."

"Jaime Lannister?" Lysa exclaimed. She could not believe her ears. "Oh, is that true? Jaime Lannister wishes to wed me?" Her hands came up to rest on her cheeks and press gently against the soft skin. Jaime Lannister was as handsome as the Prince himself, or so she'd heard it said. He was definitely better looking than Brandon Stark or whatever other suitor her sister had. Not even Petyr could match him.

"I trust it pleases you." Hoster nodded. "Then, do I have your permission to begin negotiations?" The question was more or less spoken jokingly. Lysa knew that she could not refuse such a match.

And indeed she wouldn't, for nothing in the world. Cat could keep her frozen walls and castles of snow and her Brandon Stark. Lysa would someday be the Lady of Casterly Rock and she would give her husband brave and strong sons and beautiful daughters. Her wide smile might have been answer enough for her father, but Lysa nodded eagerly just to strengthen her meaning. It seemed that words had deserted her at such grand news. A hand pressed to her bosom, Lysa concentrated on breathing. Only after that did she managed to form a proper response.

"Do father, do. Write back with haste. I wish to be Jaime Lannister's bride." Her enthusiasm brought a pleased smile on Hoster's lips.

She was dismissed after. Lysa happily trailed down the corridor, wondering where she might find Cat to share with her the news. Her sister would be so thrilled, Lysa knew. Her only grief was that mother would never know. If only she were still alive. Minisa Whent would have danced with her daughter, spinning them around in circles. The mere thought of it brought a smile to her lips. "Oh, mother. You would have been so proud." As proud as Cat would be.

Her sister had taken herself to the kitchens. She was discussing with the cook, her tall and lean form framed by the glow of the fire and the light coming from without. Catelyn turned her head slightly at Lysa's arrival and gave her sister a soft quirk of lips. She exchanged a few quick words with the cook after which she turned fully to Lysa. "What are you doing here in that dress, Lysa?" she chided gently. "You'll ruin the hem."

"It doesn't matter," Lysa replied airily. She would have many more dresses when she was wedded. "I have such news to tell you. Come quickly," she called. However, excitement would not allow her to wait for Cat. She turned and ran up the stairs, her sister a mere three paces behind. She could hardly wait.

Together they made their way to Catelyn's chamber where no one would disturb them. There her older sister sat down on the bed. "Now will you tell me what you've had me running for?"

"Do you really not know why father called me to his solar? Truly?" Lysa questioned, plopping herself down next to Catelyn.

"I haven't an inkling," Catelyn answered solemnly. "Truly I do not. Father would not discuss it with me. He said it was to be a surprise."

"And what a surprise it was," Lysa sighed. "You won't believe it, Cat. You won't believe who wishes to court me." Catching her sister's hands in her own, Lysa swung them up and down. "Can you guess?"

Catelyn laughed. "I wouldn't know where to begin. Do tell me who it is, sister." Lysa shook her head. Catelyn drew in a sharp breath. "Very well, I'll try to guess, but only once."

"Only once," Lysa promised, putting on her best solemn face.

"Well, let us see." Catelyn made a show of thinking on potential suitors. She opened her mouth a few times but closed it without a word. Her blue eyes narrowed in concentration and her fingers drummed against her kneecap slowly. "Ah, I've got it. It's Lord Walder Frey."

Horror bloomed on Lysa's face. "Catelyn!" She giggled madly nonetheless. "I said suitor, not a creature of the swamp that could make small children cry." Both laughed at the accurate description of their father's bannerman.

"Then who is it, Lysa, that has you in such a mood?" Catelyn asked with a smile on her face.

"Jaime Lannister," Lysa answered with obvious pride, her cheeks reddening. Her triumph was most keenly explained in details for her sister to hear and wonder at.

"I am so pleased for you," Catelyn said at the end, throwing her arms around Lysa.

* * *

Jeyne Farman worried a handkerchief between her fingers, her round plump chin trembling. The agony of uncertainty rubbed her raw, stealing even the fleeting measure of peace she had managed to grab onto previously. There was a reason, of course. Motivation played a large part and fear even a larger one.

Far from having any illusions of bravery, Jeyne could honestly say she was a coward. Horses galloping at a high speed scared her. Sharp edged swords scared her. Yelling voices scared her. Old witches with burning eyes scared her. The dark scared her. But most of all Cersei Lannister scared her. Jeyne had learned that the true lion at the Rock – in the absence of the good Lord Hand – was his daughter. It was Cersei to whom all deferred. It was Cersei who doled out rewards and punishments. In fact, it had been Cersei who had one of the maids stripped down and beaten raw and bloody on the suspicion of having stolen a golden chain. It was later proven that the chain had simply fallen in a nook in the wall. Still, the maid had lost an eye and the use of one leg, and Cersei could not bear her face, so she had been dismissed.

Cersei Lannister held the power in the lion's household and none dared contradict or even annoy her for fear of sharing a similar fate to the servant girl's. So of course that when Cersei said that Melara had eloped, Jeyne had agreed – quite vocally – for love of her neck.

Had she illusions of bravery or uncommon rightfulness, they would have been crashed to pieces under the weight and magnitude of her lie. But she hadn't. So her head had continued to rest comfortably atop her shoulders, while poor Melara was only the gods knew where, doing no one knew what.

Perhaps she had tried to walk home and lost herself in the woods, Jeyne had tried to console herself after the first few days. Then Melara's father had arrived and tore through the keep, insisting loudly that his daughter would not have run away and that the note she had – presumably – left was a fake. And Jeyne knew, she just knew, that whatever followed it would not be pretty. Cersei had been locked in her chambers, isolated from anyone and everyone, while her brother – Jaime, that was – had protested the treatment, only to earn himself a few choice words from the Lord Hand.

Normally, Jeyne would have enjoyed the presence of Cersei's twin. She knew that it would probably be Melara he preferred, but she could not help thinking him handsome. It helped that he was a ward of Lord Crakehall and rarely came to visit. As an old saying went, absence only makes the heart grow fonder. She found, however, that long stints in the company of Jaime left one empty and hurt. He liked best cutting people with a wit close to his sister's. Jeyne resolved to watch him from afar when she could.

In the meantime, the men had doubled the efforts of their search. Jeyne had thought that they would find her at some point and all would end well, however, the days passed one after the other and no one knew a thing. Suspicion had turned into horror and slowly bled into despair. Yet Jeyne had held her tongue. She would say only what she knew Cersei would want her to say. Years after, she would recall with startling clarity the nauseating feeling that took over her in the morning when Lord Tywin called her to his solar. So unusual was the summoning that Jeyne promptly cast all her account of the Septa's new dress, ruining it beyond repair and earning herself a few angry stares. She swallowed back the urge to weep.

Dressed in one of her best gowns that did nothing for her figure, Jeyne was marched to the Lord Tywin's solar by her angered Septa who left her there on her own as one of the squires announced her. She heard the invitation for her to step in and instinctively her body moved to follow the implied order. No one dared ignore the Lord Hand when he spoke.

To her amazement, the Lord Hand was not alone. A docile looking man sat on one of the chairs, his fingers picking from a cluster of grapes only those pieces that looked fat and juicy. A chill speared her then. Jeyne lowered her gaze and bent the knee in a tipsy curtsy. "My lords," she greeted in a voice so soft she feared they might not hear her and think her defiant. She would surely receive a beating for that.

But Lord Tywin did not allow her much time to worry over her fate. "Lady Jeyne, do you still swear by my daughter's version of events?"

Jeyne looked up at that. There was something strange in the man's voice. "Aye, my lord. I am sure it is as your daughter says." The anger in his gaze heightened. Jeyne's eyes fell to the ground once more. She had the mad urge to apologise.

"If you would be so kind, my lady," began the other man in the room, "do turn around and look at the bench there." His voice was kind, but his smile held something like irony about it. Jeyne hurried to do as she was told.

The first thing that registered was the white sheet. It took no longer than a heartbeat to realise that underneath was a human. It was clear by the shape. Dread filled Jeyne. She looked on stunned, her limbs frozen by her side. Her lips itched to move.

"Pull the sheet off," Lord Tywin ordered, his voice cracking over her ear like whip. Jeyne inhaled loudly and tried to heed him but her arms and legs refused to cooperate. "Pull it off," came the angry growl.

Frightened into action, Jeyne jumped forward and with a savage yank ripped the linen away. A shriek of terror left her lips at the sight. It was Melara. Gods be good, it was Melara. It was then that all her pent up frustration and all her fears broke through the thin wall of control she had erected. What followed was a torrent of tears and words, confessions she had never meant to make. But the shock was so strong that it overpowered her.

She told them all, every little detail she could recall. "I didn't want to go, my lord, I promise. I told them not to. I swear I did. But Lady Cersei – she insisted. She said we could find out who we were to wed." Her eyes were pinned to the prone form of Melara, lying there lifeless. "But I couldn't. I was too scared. Melara went on with my lady and I ran back." She interrupted her own story to regain her breath. Tears streamed down her face. "The next day, Lady Cersei came to me saying that Melara was missing. We searched the room together. And we found the note. That's all I know. Please!"

The girl fell to her knees, her hand reaching out towards the corpse. "Please, Melara, forgive me. Please." Her begging would do no good. Melara was long gone, her conscience whispered harshly to her. She had betrayed her friend and she deserved every twinge of pain that pinched its way through her heart. Jeyne continued to cry, her face reddening. Her head ached and her innards were all twisting together. "Melera," she called to the other girl, hoping for a reply. But none came.

Perhaps the men had grown tired of her for she was hauled to her feet and made to face the Lord of the Rock. His gaze cut through her. She read in his eyes all the reprobation his lips would not release upon her. Her shoulders hunched and she trembled violently. "I didn't know. I didn't." She wondered if they believed her; if they could believe a coward and a liar. Still, her word was all she had. If he did not speak soon, Lord Lannister would find his fine boots sharing the same fate as the Septa's new dress. Jeyne tried to calm herself, but her mind would not allow it, even less would her soul. She had no right to feel calm, none whatsoever. Jeyne grimaced and looked from Tywin Lannister to the unknown man.

The enormity of the situation finally hit her. Up until that point, Jeyne had been shocked and sick to her stomach and fearful. But after that came the true horror of realisation. They had called only her. Cersei was not in the room. She looked around, hoping her sight would prove her wrong. But nay, Cersei was nowhere to be found. Melara gazed back at the unmoving shape of Melara, watching as a ray of sunshine touched her face. The pale skin glowed eerily. Jeyne shuddered and quickly focused of a neutral point on the wall.

"I didn't do it," she said carefully. Mad laughter bloomed on her lips but she somehow held it in. "I didn't." If she repeated it often enough it just might wash away her guilt, Jeyne thought. And the mad laughter came again. She could not stop it a second time.

"Ah, my lord," the stranger cut in as Jeyne's laughter died on her lips as swiftly as it had begun, "I fear we have created the wrong impression. Lady Jeyne, you have been called here to attest that it is Lady Melara we have found. There is no blame to be shouldered."

"It is Melara," Jeyne assured them. "I would know her anywhere. It is Melara." Her voice was odd, flat, dead. Just like Melara. The irony was not lost on Jeyne. Fat and cowardly she might be, but stupid she was not. At least she didn't think she was. Her lower lip jutted out as a fresh wave of tears prepared to spill forth.

Melara's fate was sad and wrong. She had been so young and full of dreams. It wasn't fair that the Stranger would take her so soon. Jeyne clutched her handkerchief tighter, bringing it up to dab her eyes dry. She wondered if Cersei would come in and accuse her then. Nothing of the sort happened though. She was merely led to a chair and made to sit down. Two pairs of eyes watched her as a squire handed her a cup. Jeyne took a careful sip. She though she could feel Melara's sightless gaze burning into the back of her head. She clutched the cup tighter and downed the rest of the liquid in four large gulps. She placed the object on the table and made to stand up. Lord Tywin stopped her with a shake of his head. Jeyne remained as she was.

"Lady Melara has had an unfortunate accident," the stranger said. "She must have been trying to find her way back to the keep when a wild beast happened upon her." Jeyne glanced sceptically at the body. "We have cleaned her up to the best of our abilities, of course, and she shall be given to her parents with utmost haste. But the truth is that poor Lady Melara broke away from the group and tragedy struck. Isn't that so, Lady Jeyne?"

They wanted her to lie again. She had done it for Cersei. Surely she could do it once more. The men looked at her expectantly. Should she refuse, she too would end up like Melara. Another tragedy; another box of bones to be taken home to her parents. She had a choice. And her choice was simple. She could live with the sin haunting her every waking hour, or she could die with a clean conscience.

"Truly a tragedy. Lady Melara shall be missed greatly, I know, by myself and Lady Cersei." She almost choked on the last words but somehow she managed to get them out. Jeyne stood up from the chair. "I would like to return to my chamber, my lords, if I am permitted."

"Very well," Lord Lannister said. He nodded at her request. "Go rest, Lady Jeyne. We shall have further words at a later time."

* * *

Rhaegar could recall very few instances in which he had wanted, quite desperately at that, to have been born in an entirely different house. Being a prince was all good and well, it had certain advantages – stacks upon stacks of books, the best armours money could buy, a never ending supply of food and drink and whatnot – but it also held certain perils – like the fact that occasionally his father remembered that he existed and decided to use him in whatever scheme he was concocting.

And while Rhaegar would have happily refused him and taken himself off to a far away corner of the world had it been only him, he could not do so on account of Viserys. The poor boy would have no one left to watch him if Rhaegar too decided to just disappear. However, he did resent being used and the King did not seem opposed to using his son.

That left him with little to do but bow to his father's decision. Even when said decision made him slightly sick to the stomach. The Prince had been tasked to woo the Lannister maiden in place of his father. "I cannot leave the realm's leading as I please. It is essential that I remain in King's Landing," Aerys had claimed. Rhaegar would have liked to ask him if he had any other tongues to cut out of innocent mouths, but he had refrained. As he loved his own tongue dearly. It was quite useful.

Of course, the fact that the King's intended was merely a child did not seem to feature in his father's thoughts. Rhaegar tried to remember whether Cersei Lannister was a maiden flowered. The last time he had seen her, she'd been a girl reaching no higher than his waist. The thought of that girl wedding his father sent a cold shiver running down his back. If he remembered correctly at that time, his father and the Lord Hand had been discussing possible matches for Rhaegar. Lord Tywin had more or less hinted at Cersei becoming Rhaegar's wife and the King had politely dismissed the idea, acting as if he hadn't understood what Lord Tywin suggested. And that had seemed the end of it. Of course, a strange sort of tension had grown between the King and his Hand, but none had dared suggested that the reason had been the King's rejection of the Hand's proposal.

He had been also given a letter to deliver to the Lord Hand. Rhaegar would have opened it, but he feared what he would see. Thus, he kept the letter in its place and quelled whatever impulse arose every now and again to discover what hid in the missive. It was better not to know. That much he had learned at a young age. Where the King was concerned blindness, deafness and dumbness were powerful allies.

Lord Tywin was bound to be displeased by the news. But there was little he could do, if Rhaegar's understanding was right. Apparently, the King had found something to tie Lord Tywin's hands with and force him into the corner. Whatever it was, Aerys thought that he would obtain Tywin's daughter through it.

Of course, Rhaegar would do much better to worry about himself. Beside the Lord Hand's daughter, it was said that the Martells too were at the Rock. Thankfully, his father had devised a clever way by which Rhaegar was to deflect any attempt of the Dornish nobility at a match between their houses.

The official reason for his journey was reaching Winterfell where he was to advise Lord Stark to make his way into King's Landing where the King planned to name him on the Small Council. Whose position Lord Stark was to take was yet unclear. Rhaegar, of course, had an inkling. However he had kept it to himself. His father's mind was as changeable as the weather. He was to woo Cersei Lannister for no more than a few days.

"You are deep in thought," Arthur Dayne noted, bringing his horse closer to Rhaegar's own. "Worried about something?"

One of his closest friends, Arthur Dayne was planning to join the Kingsguard and so he had volunteered to join the Prince on his journey. They had met long ago in Dorne, at the seat of House Dayne. A firm friendship had been established between them and after squiring for some other Dornish lord, Arthur had made his way to King's Landing. There, Rhaegar had introduced him to various members of the White Cloaks. Slowly, but surely, Arthur had earned himself a place among them. As soon as a place would be vacated, doubtlessly his friend would have a white cloak of his own placed on his shoulders.

"Only that we might lose you to Lady Cersei's radiant beauty," Rhaegar quipped. Celibacy was not among Arthur's many virtues. But it was also true that he rarely initiated such encounters. He laughed at Arthur's perplexed expression. "You shall put us all in quite the difficulty."

"Then I ought to be very careful around this Lady Lannister," Arthur played along with a smirk. "Or is it she who should be careful?" They both laughed at that.

Naturally, Rhaegar knew that as Arthur truly did wish to join the Kingsguard, he would not do anything to hamper his chances. In fact, the Prince was sure that only a deep love could turn his friend's head. And, despite the fact that there had been a good number of women in his life, Arthur did not show any signs of holding any of them in special regard.

At the very least he would never be pressed to wed anyone. Rhaegar rather envied Arthur is that respect. He had options. He could choose what he wished to do. Rhaegar, on the other hand, had his fate tied to the throne and the crown. He was sure that at some point his perspective would change, but he was also quite determined that the change would take place only when it was him who sat that chair.

The fact that none but him knew why they were stopping at Casterly Rock on their way was not a great help. Rhaegar did wish he had someone to confide the matter in, yet the King had asked that no one know.

"How long are we to stay here?" Arthur asked, a mere hint of curiosity behind his question. The imposing structure of Casterly Rock was looming before them, the gate standing tall and strong and the walls looking quite impervious.

"No more than a day or two at most." Rhaegar had no wish to deal with either Cersei Lannister or her father for too long. Though he pitied the poor creature for what was to be her fate, he would not allow himself to feel anything more for the girl.

As a child he had once tried to get between his angry father and his pleading, sobbing mother. That was the first and last time his father had ever hit him. The slap had knocked him to the ground and knocked loose a tooth too. While no permanent damage had been done to him, Rhaegar had never forgotten the incident. Even after a new tooth grew in place of the one that had fallen, the sting still remained.

Then he had been a child. As a man grown, stepping between the King and the Queen could amount to treason. And his father had never really needed solid reason to punish or main. It would be best to draw his strength and save it for a finishing blow. It would come, that Rhaegar promised to himself. Just as he had been knocked to the ground then with his mother's shrieks ringing in his ears, so would the King.

Most people thought that his head was filled with prophecies and tales and he wanted them to keep believing that. His own father was sure that his firstborn was of more use in a Maester's library than on a field of battle. Rhaegar had hidden from all his struggle to master the art of war. And it had gone well. Arthur knew, as his friend; they had often trained together. And there was also Barristan Selmy. Both had been sworn to secrecy.

"Would you look at that, lions. Lions everywhere." Arthur broke Rhaegar out of his thought. His friends pointed to the many sculptures of roaring lions. "Do you think one of them might come to life and attack us?"

"We do not live in a song," Rhaegar pointed out. "The only lion we ought to worry about is seating somewhere behind those walls."

"Plotting our demise, no doubt," Arthur joked. "At least, we'll have a fair maiden to watch over us."

Or to speed their departure along, with poison. The Lannisters were a wily lot. They had power and riches, which was always a combination to be feared. Even more when one considered that a rift had already been created between the crown and the Southron house.

"If that brings you comfort, my friend, you should become a sellsword. The white cloak would be a burden." The Prince kicked his horse into the flanks and the beast hurried forth.

The rest of his companions did the same, the sound of hooves pounding the ground filling the air. And Casterly Rocks opened its gates to them and sucked them in. Rhaegar chanced to glance at the sky and saw the storm clouds gathering.

If such an omen would have worried someone else, Rhaegar paid it little mind. The only thing he need fear of the rain was a harder road to Winterfell. Mud always made travelling a trial, more so even than excessive heat.

"Your Grace," he was greeted by none other than Lord Tywin. The man looked to have aged a score of years in the time they had not seen one another. Or perhaps it was the grief of having lost his wife and the worry of what the King planned to do.

"My Lord Hand," Rhaegar offered in response. "Lord Varys," he added upon seeing the eunuch perched precariously atop a horse. The poor beast looked about ready to fall over. "I am here on the order of the King, my lords. I must speak to you, Lord Hand."

"Indeed." Tywin gave a sharp nod and Rhaegar, with the rest of the column, followed for what remained on the road.

At the entrance of the keep awaited Lord Tywin's twins and their Dornish guests. Jaime Lannister had fixed his eyes upon Ser Gerold Hightower with unwavering admiration, just as his sister chanced to look upon Rhaegar. Recognition was immediate. Cersei Lannister offered him a brilliant smile, hope shining in her emerald eyes. The ruling Princess of Dorne acknowledged him with a warm smile, no doubt remembering an incident from his childhood which she had witnessed. Her children stood by her, both of them peering with interest at the procession.

Introductions were made and pleasantries were exchanged as was the custom. Salt, bread and wine was taken and after what was deemed an appropriate amount of time, the newest guests were led to their chambers. Peering over his shoulder, Rhaegar was quite stricken to see two pairs of eyes following him, one green, the other black.

"One or two days might be too long," Arthur laughed softly. "I daresay that if we remain here past supper, we shall be remaining forever."

"Perish the thought," Rhaegar replied. "I am talking to the Lord Hand, I shall ask for Lady Cersei's hand and after that I'll be off to the wild North." At least there he would have some peace. Hopefully.

"I do so loathe crushing dreams and hopes, but you are aware that Lord Stark has a daughter, are you not?" Arthur questioned, a small smile on his face. "An unmarried one, I mean."

"As I heard it, the girl was not yet flowered." That, of course, would not have stopped her father, but perhaps Lord Stark's daughter was still years away from her first drop of blood.

As if to plant doubt in his heart, Arthur threw him a questioning glance. Rhaegar wisely ignored it and chose to look straight forward. The sooner he spoke to Lord Tywin the better, and the closer he would be to leaving.

But first he would brush off the dust that had decided to cling to him. Rhaegar entered the room that had been given to him and closed the door behind him, ignoring whatever moved outside the door.

If luck was on his side, he might yet make quick work of the matter.


End file.
